Thursday, February 28, 2013

It's been a long time, but I feel like updating this blog again. I guess it comes in waves, the blogs we update, especially when we've been polygamous blog-wise.

As my regular readers (all none of them) would note, from you I have been absent in the Spring. I don't know what that means, I just like saying it.

I am supposed to finish two stories now. I have transcribed both of them. Instead, I took off to Starbucks for a hot chocolate and muffin and a perusal of Woman In White by Wilkie Collins (I started, and you know when you start this, you cannot bear to put it down).

Among other things I have developed a taste for Pakeeza's fish curry. I stumbled upon it by accident as it's not one of the things I would normally get from there. Dadda asked me to bring him curry (sambar, yuck!) and there was a jam all the way to the Section 11 collection of Indian restaurants (OK, PJ Hills and Pandey's) and so I decided to go to Pakeeza instead. I got fish curry to go along with a dhal (the dhal was a bad idea) and when I came to eat my share of it with white rice, I was blown away. I mean it was so good, I could have gone on eating indefinitely. Instead, I left a portion for my father and finished my meal determining that this would not be the last time I went to Pakeeza to get fish curry. It wasn't. I bought the same thing, only a whole lot more of it, two days later.

I am still not recovered. My lungs feel like some ravelled sleave of care. Coughing interrupts my nights. I feel worn out in the mornings. And then I fall asleep and sleep soundly way past when. I'm at work now and I feel tired. It's like this illness has left its stamp on me, for better or worse.

Instead of finishing the two stories I am supposed to, I feel like going home, having some tea, having some rice and leftover fish curry, reading my book and going early to bed.

About Me

I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books. (CS Lewis)